Drabble Collection--Season 5
by professortennant
Summary: Collection of S5 post-ep drabbles and fics, all featuring Jean and Lucien (and the occasional Malice fic).
1. 501

Even Jean's excellent care couldn't take the aching sting out of his head and Lucien felt his fingers twitch, wanting to reach for that 3rd glass of whiskey to take the edge off.

As if sensing his discomfort, Jean appeared in the study's doorway, hip leaning against the doorjamb and eyebrows furrowed in concern. His discomfort must be evident on his face. "Lucien, what's wrong? Do you need another Bex?"

He waved her off, gritting his teeth. "No, love, no. Just this bloody headache lingering a bit." Lucien leaned forward, rubbing his head with his hands and trying to will the ache away.

Jean wasn't having any of it. Coming to stand in front of him, she placed her fingertips at his temple, rubbing in small circles.

The touch of her cool fingertips against his skin had him relaxed immediately and he groaned, head rolling backwards as she worked her fingers over his temples and forehead before dancing over his scalp.

Jean cooed at him, "There now, isn't that better?"

He wholeheartedly agreed. With a mischievous grin, he took her hands from his head and tugged her into his lap, laughing at the look of indignation on her face, as she toppled on top of him, instinctively wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Leaning close, lips just barely brushing her own, Lucien whispered, "You're better than any whiskey." And, watching her face soften and a pleased smile play at her lips, he kissed her.


	2. 502

Jean offered Lucien his whiskey and then sat down next to him on the settee, cuddling up to his side. Lucien dropped a kiss to the top of her head and wrapped his arms around her shoulder, content to simply hold her close.

But something weighed on Jean's mind. "Patrick Tyneman said the strangest thing to me today. He said we were meant to be." She twisted in his arms and looked up at him. "Do you think we are? Meant to be?"

Lucien thought carefully for a moment and then pulled her impossibly closer to his body. "I don't know if we were _meant_ to be. I think we were _meant_ to find each other, _meant_ to help heal each other, _meant_ to love each other. But we did the work to get to this point. Destiny brought us together and then we worked to stay together."

Jean turned her face into his chest to hide her pleased smile. Another kiss to the top of her head and then his last, final confession for her to hear: "But I know without a doubt you were meant for me, Jean, as I was meant for you."


	3. 503

Lucien took her hand in his, thumb rubbing over the ring that now encircled her finger. Jean sighed and rested her head against his shoulder, her free hand rubbing his knee comfortingly.

"I didn't know how much it bothered you-me, not wearing it."

He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, her knuckle, and finally to the ring itself.

"With all the uncertainty, I liked looking over and knowing that you were mine; that you weren't going anywhere. It's a promise, Jean. Not just from me to you, but you to me. And it made me nervous when you didn't wear it. Made me think that maybe you," he trailed off, hesitant to voice his fears.

But Jean knew anyway. She lifted her head from his shoulder. "You thought I was rethinking marrying you. Rethinking us."

He nodded and ducked his head. Jean's chest felt tight with grief that she had ever caused him to doubt her. She resolved to never take this ring off.

Hooking her finger beneath his chin, she lifted his face and stole a kiss from him, lips ghosting over his, before leaning her forehead against his.

"I promise to love and cherish you, Lucien Blake, from this day forward. I'll save the rest for the wedding, but you need to know I'm not going anywhere."

The weight of her words settled over him like a warm blanket. He brushed the tip of her nose with his own as he nuzzled at her, his eyes slipping close.

"And I promise to love and cherish you, Jean Beazley, from this day forward."

They had made their vows to each other-the only vows that mattered-and that was good enough for them.


	4. 504 (1)

Jean awoke on Sunday morning, pressing a kiss to Lucien's cheek, then readied herself for church. Once done, she tiptoed downstairs for a cup of tea.

In another life, a Sunday morning meant chasing around two little boys, coaxing them into wearing a tie while they squealed with laughter, Christopher standing in the doorway laughing.

Then Sundays meant donning a widow's hood and making the trip to the church alone. Once the pain of losing Christopher passed, church blended into the background of her routine. It had been a place of community, peace, and warmth.

Now, for the first time since she was a little girl, dread settled in her stomach. Today was another day to bear judgment, to doubt herself and her faith, to feel guilty for loving Lucien.

Behind her, footsteps echoed down the hall and she turned, her heart leaping to her throat. Lucien stood in the doorway, dressed impeccably.

"Lucien, what-"

He shrugged bashfully. "We've got a service to attend, love."

Jean's face crumpled, tears falling fast. Lucien was at her side in an instant, stroking her hair and holding her against his chest, "Jean? I'm sorry, I thought you would want me-"

She pulled away and held his face in her hands, pressing a kiss to his lips. "I do. I really do."

Lucien beamed at her, wiping the last of her tears away. "I may not believe in God or the church, but I believe in you, Jeannie. And I will be by your side." He grinned mischievously, "Just let those biddies say a thing to you with me around. They wouldn't dare."

She slipped her hand in his and led him out the front door into the sunshine, heading for church, with her protector at her side.


	5. 504 (2)

Jean finds Lucien's weak spots with ease. Ply him with a drink and a kiss and he's soft and open. A squeeze of his knee and he's at ease and laughing. A kiss to the crown of his head and he's smiling and blushing.

But this week, Jean finds other weak spots. She grabs hold of his lapels and lets her fingertips brush the exposed patch of skin on his chest and he's crushing her to him, hands splaying over her back.

Then she finds a land mine. She presses a lingering kiss to his forehead, strokes her fingers over his cheek and beard, nails scraping over the skin. Lucien melts beneath her touch and he closes his eyes, savoring the feel of her against him.

Jean smiles and looks down, marveling at the man in her hands. He lifts his head, eyes flickering open, and her breath catches in her throat. His eyes are lazy with pleasure and she thinks if he was a cat, he'd be purring gratefully, nuzzling into her hands.

She has every intention of leaving him in his study and tiptoeing back to bed, waiting for him to join her there. But she's touched him in a way that he can't hold back any longer. Suddenly, his hands are her hips and pulling her down into his lap, his mouth latching onto her neck, growling against her with every gasp of his name.

He stands with her in his arms and settles her onto his desk, pushing her legs open so he can stand between them. Jean's hands come up to cup his face, stroking his beard. Intentionally, this time. She witnesses the same reaction, watches him shudder and purr. Then, with all the focus the man possesses, he sets about finding _Jean's_ weak spots.


	6. 505 (1)

"Come here."

He leaned back in his chair and offered her his hand, eyes dark. The tone of his voice was clear, demanding, and Jean was hopeless to obey. She slipped her hand in his and went willingly as he tugged her into his lap, his arms circling her waist and keeping her close.

Jean liked direction, liked following what was expected of her, liked listening to him take control. His breath fell upon her face in gentle, warming gusts and she waited for the next command.

"Kiss me."

She tangled her fingers in his hair, sliding around to cup his jaw and drag her nails through his beard, loving the way it scraped against the sensitive pads of her fingers. He growled low in his throat and tightened his grip around her.

Ducking her head, she pressed her lips to his and sighed at the familiar taste of whiskey and mint. Lucien's mouth opened beneath her and she dipped her tongue between his lips, sweeping over his tongue briefly, before pulling away.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Any other orders, doctor?"

"Love me?"

It was a question this time, not an order, and Jean felt his fingers twist her engagement ring. How could he ever doubt that she loved him? Their road was uncertain, yes, but this was permanent. This was forever.

She pressed a kiss to his lips and buried her face in his neck, keeping herself wrapped in his arms where it was safe and neither the church nor the prying eyes of Ballarat could touch them.


	7. 505 (2)

Lucien has been released into her care for only a few short hours but she can't stop touching him. Fingertips trailing over his arm and shoulders, kisses to his cheek and temple and lips, hands squeezing his hands and thighs.

It's normal, she tells herself. She's just making sure he doesn't overexert himself (he's already tried to go to work twice and he's driving her mental).

But the truth comes to her at night when she can't sleep, tossing and turning and imagining a scenario in which a mysterious stranger didn't save him, he wasn't quick enough to fix his breathing, Percy stabbed him up and a few inches to the right.

The truth comes when she presses herself against him, hand over his heart, and feels the steady beating pounding against her hand and the gentle rise and fall of his chest tells her he's _alive_.

She lets the emotions of the days catch up to her: almost losing him, choosing to leave the church, the scalding pain of her arm. She lets the first few tears fall and then she's crying in earnest, muffling her cries into her pillow.

He stirs at the sound of her sniffles and looks over at her sleepily, confused. "Jean, love?"

And it's too much. She breaks.

Rolling close to him, she wraps her arms around him, burying her face into his shoulder. "Hold me," she gasps out. It's the first command she's uttered and he's a soldier at heart and ready to comply.

He wraps his arms around her, stroking her hair and cooing at her. "It's alright, Jean. It's alright."

She sighs, snuggling into his arms. "Don't leave me, Lucien."

His heart picks up speed at her words, as close to an _I love you_ that they've ever been and the words stick in this throat. But it's not the right time. He holds her closer and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

Lucien knows they need to talk, to hash things out in a way that both of them are scared to do, but it needs to happen before either of them break with the strain of their relationship. But for now, they sleep.


	8. 505 (3)

The next time Lucien opened his eyes, it was dark and the only light filtering into his small hospital room was from the hallway. The light entered the room in streaks and it was just bright enough to illuminate the silhouette of the woman beside him: Jean.

She was curled up in the chair, her legs tucked tightly beneath her and her hand hanging awkwardly off the chair, resting on his arm. It didn't look comfortable at all and his heart went out to her. Even in the dim light, he could see the lines on her face and the circles around her eyes.

He twitched his fingers, desperate to stroke her skin and he managed to just brush over the inside of her wrist. Looking down, he was pleased to see his engagement ring sitting proudly on her finger, sparkling against the light.

Jean hummed in her sleep, shifting to try and get comfortable. Lucien smiled softly at her, noting the way her nose scrunched adorably when she shifted positions. He managed to wrap his fingers around her wrist and tug gently, hoping to wake her.

It would be a risk to ask this of her, but it was for her own good. And, if he was being honest with himself, he was desperate for her.

"Jean? Jean, love, wake up."

If he lived to be a hundred, he would never love anything more than the sight of Jean waking up: sleepy, bleary eyes peering out at him from behind thick eyelashes, breaths coming out in little puffs as she tried to get her bearings.

Immediately she was at his side, wincing as her stiff muscles protested at the sudden movement. "Are you alright? Do you need a nurse?"

She was already half out of her chair and headed for the doorway when he stopped her, tugging at her wrist. "No, no, I'm alright." She frowned at him. "Then what is it?"

He scooted over on the bed, wincing at the movement, and made room for her on the small twin bed. "That chair is ridiculously uncomfortable and there's plenty of room here. Just thought you might want to kip here for a few hours instead?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "Lucien…"

He laughed, the action jostling his ribs and causing him to wince again. "I'm hardly in a state to take advantage." He raised his eyebrows at her briefly then his features softened and he simply looked at her: his own personal angel.

"I just want you close."

His words convinced her and she agreed, slipping into the bed beside him with a warning, "Just for a few hours. The nurses won't know what to do with this if they walk in…"

Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he hummed in agreement. "I'll protect you." She curled herself next to him and found he was right, she was already more comfortable, not just in the bed, but by having his warm presence beside her–solid and real and alive.

Sleepily, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder and neck and chest before laying her head back down on his shoulder. "Not if I protect you first."

Holding her close, Lucien smiled into her hair, the sound of her soft snores already filling the room. Now. Now he could sleep.


	9. 506 (1)

"Jean, I am trying to make things better."

She doesn't think anything of his words at the time, just kisses his cheek and carries on with dinner. She doesn't notice the way he grasps her hand a little tighter, the way he clings to her that evening–hands splayed on her back and fingertips leaving bruises on her hip. Each touch begging her to stay, to have faith in him, to never leave him.

Jean sleeps in his arms that night, exhausted from the events of the day, and content to be held by him. Lucien doesn't sleep; can't sleep. Not when he knows he's on the verge of losing her.

 _It will always be somewhat messier with me._

 _He won't stop annoying you until he's working._

 _Piece by piece you've unraveled everything your father has built._

 _ _The divorce, this business with the church, all of it weighing so heavily on your mind._  
_

 _I tried drinking myself to death._

He tightens his hold on her–his light in the darkness–and vows to himself to do everything in his power to be the best person he can be for her, to never cause his light to extinguish. He would be better for her.


	10. 506 (2)

"I'm going to be your wife." Her hands are deft, tugging at his vest until he's before her in only his dress shirt and tie.

He sighs softly, hand coming up to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. "That's the first time you've said that." The sound of _your wife_ from her lips had gone straight to his head and he felt lightheaded and giddy.

Her face softened and she covered his hand with her own, turning into his touch and pressing a kiss to his palm. "Oh, Lucien. I can't wait to be your wife; to share the rest of my life with you. It's all I've wanted for quite some time."

He shuddered at her words, eyes glassy with unshed tears. His world had been so dark before her and every word of love and reassurance was another pinprick of light to guide him. "I love you," he rasped out, tilting her head up and slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss.

Her fingers curled around his tie, tugging him closer. When he broke the kiss, he simply stared at her as if he still couldn't quite believe she was there, that she was real and in his arms.

Jean's heart clenched in her chest at the look of awe on his face. The divorce and its impact on her had been severe but she hadn't spared much thought for how Lucien was dealing with everything. An idea formed in the back of her head, something to reassure him everything would be okay, that she wasn't going anywhere, that she _loved_ him.

Biting her lip, she played with the buttons of his shirt, peering up at him through thick eyelashes. "You're going to be my husband, Lucien." He closed his eyes and sighed and Jean knew she was on the right path. Lucien needed to hear these words from her.

She tugged at the knot of his tie and lifted the loop over his head, tossing the material onto the floor along with this vest. Lucien's eyes shot open, hands instinctively grabbing her waist. "Jean…"

She silenced him with a kiss and murmured against his lips, "Let me."

His grip on her waist remained tight and he took in the sight of her undressing him with wide eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. Jean's heart thumped in her chest at the sight, imagining that look directed at her in much, much different circumstances.

Slowly, she slipped each of his buttons out of its hole, each unfastened button accompanied by another reassurance.

"You're going to be such a good husband." Another button.

"I love you." Another button.

"I'm so proud to be yours." Another button.

"I can't wait for everyone to call me Mrs. Blake." Another button.

"We're going to take such good care of each other." Another button.

"I can't wait to be married to you." Another button.

By the time the last button was freed, Lucien was trembling in her arms, overwhelmed. She pushed the shirt from his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor along with the other garments. Stepping closer, mindful of his stitches, she ghosted her lips over his jaw and neck and ear, murmuring reassurances and hushing him.

It was too much for Lucien. He crumbled, wrapping his arms around Jean and hauling her against him, face buried in her neck. "I love you," he rasped out. His lips brushed over the pulse point in her neck and he continued, "I promise I'll make this right for you, Jean. I promise."

She stroked his hair, nails scraping over his neck, and simply held him. "We're going to fix this _together_ ," she stressed. He shuddered in her arms and she closed her eyes against the sting of tears. Her Lucien had been through so much, had thought himself to unworthy of love. She needed to remember to remind him that she loved him just as surely as he loved her.

When his trembling stopped, she pulled away and held him at arm's length. Lucien let out a small sound of protest at no longer being encased in her arms but was quickly pleased when Jean stepped forward and pressed her lips to his in a soft kiss.

When their lips parted, Jean's fingertips brushed over the pulled stitches in his side. "Alright then, love, into the bathroom. Let's get you patched up."

Lucien let Jean lead him into the master bathroom, obligingly sitting on the edge of the bathtub as she pulled away his bandages and cleaned it with an iodine swab, replacing it a clean bandage. She leaned down and pressed a kiss above the wound, her lips brushing his ribs.

Straightening up, she stood before him and couldn't resist: she reached out and stroked his cheek, loving the feel of his beard prickling at her fingertips. Lucien nuzzled into the touch like an overgrown cat, desperate for affection. She bit her lip, worried. She didn't think Lucien would ever believe she wouldn't leave him until they had rings on their fingers.

Dropping a kiss to the top of his head, she promised to remind him every day how much she loved him until he believed it.


	11. 506 (3) Malice

Alice beamed at them all, bouncing eagerly from one foot to the other, hands trembling in excitement as she handed Lucien her report. Her face fell, however, as she took in their disheveled appearance and pajamas.

"I woke you all, didn't I? It's too early? I'm _so sorry_ , I just thought Lucien and Matthew would want the findings right away, I–"

But before Jean could reassure her, Matthew hobbled forward, placing his hand on her arm, his previous grouchiness evaporating at the sight of her distress. "You did fine, Alice. And you're quite right; sooner is always better than later."

Alice beamed at him, not noticing the mischievous glances being exchanged between Lucien and Jean.

Jean cleared her throat, "Well, now that you're all here, I suppose I'll get breakfast started. Alice and Matthew, you two go on to the living room. Lucien, can you help me in the kitchen?"

Lucien winked at her, "Absolutely, love. Be right with you two in a jiffy. Make yourselves at home."

Alice watched the pair of them go and turned her attention back to Matthew, grinning. She took in pajamas and bare feet and terry robe. "Well, I rather feel as if I should have arrived in my nightwear as well."

Matthew's brain conjured up images of Alice in a silk nightgown, her long legs on display, with a neckline dipping just low enough to be tantalizing. It was too easy of a leap for his mind to make to imagine that nightgown hiked around her hips or being pulled from her body as he dropped it to the floor or the way she would look splayed out for him on his bed. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

"Yes," he rasped out. "Perhaps you should have."


	12. 506 (4)

The car ride home had been silent. Lucien noticed Jean's shaking hands, fluttering anxiously from her bag to her lap–her nerves raw and exposed. Without a word, he reached over and covered her hand with his, offering strength.

As they pulled up to their home, Jean was rushed out of the car, taking deep, gasping breaths before rushing into the kitchen.

He followed behind her, concern etched upon his face. He found her in the kitchen, trying to control her breathing and frantically asking about breakfast, her back to him and her eyes downcast.

"Jean…" Lucien reached for her, grasping her arm and spinning her towards him, tugging her to his chest. She buried her face in the fabric of his sweater, the material muffling her cries. Lucien sighed and rested his chin on top of her head, stroking her hair gently and murmuring nonsensical words of comfort.

Gathering herself, she pull away, looking up at him. He reached out and brushed the tears from her cheek, "Alright, love?"

Jean shook her head, biting her lip. "How do you do that every day, Lucien? She was so _young_. How can you stand it?" Even now, images of those burns, the haunting things Alice said, all racing through her mind.

Lucien cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing the curve of her cheek. "It's how I can help them, Jean. And if I can help bring their killer to justice–to take them off the street? Well, that's one less person who can hurt those that _I_ care about–one less person to hurt _you_."

Jean gave him a watery smile and covered his hands with her own, leaning into his touch. "You're such a good man, Lucien."

And for once, he believed her.


	13. 507 (1)

Lucien pushed open their bedroom door, already preparing to grovel at her feet–to hold her close or give her space, whatever she asked of him. He'd hurt her, he knew. And it would be a long road to recovery and forgiveness. Her words still haunted him: _And I'm just the housekeeper, is that it?_

If she could think that–even for a moment–he was clearly doing something wrong. Maybe he'd whisper everything that needed to be said into the quiet, still darkness of their bedroom. He'd tell her she was his soulmate, his heart, his consciousness, his everything. It wouldn't be enough but it'd be a start.

Except Jean wasn't in their bedroom.

The sheets were cool and crisp, untouched since they made the bed this morning. (Had it really been only this morning that they were teasing each other and throwing throw pillows at the other? It seemed a lifetime ago.)

The light in their bedroom was off and he could not detect any sign of her presence in the room. Even her slippers and robe were missing.

Panicking, his heart thumping in his chest, he turned and walked slowly to Jean's old room–the housekeeper's room. Each step felt like another step to a death sentence. HIs hands were clammy and his mouth was impossibly dry.

Light streamed into the hallway from beneath Jean's door and his heart fell to his stomach. She was spending the night here. Away from him.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind: Was she reconsidering his offer to let her out of the engagement? Was she deciding if he was worth the trouble? Was this permanent?

He'd grown accustomed to sleeping with Jean pressed to his side, her weight and warmth his own personal protection against nightmares of the past. And he was losing that–losing her.

Closing is eyes, he raised his hand to knock, to plead with her to return to him, to make everything better, to promise him they were still okay and she still loved him. He thought about falling to his knees, to beg her to say those words–he _needed_ to hear those words.

And then the weight of his insecurities and fears crashed in on him: _You don't deserve her. You're not worthy of her. You're a burden. Let her go. Let her be._

Jean needed time away from him–temporarily, he hoped, but if she decided she wanted out, he would let her go. It would kill him, but he would do it. For her.

His hand, poised to knock on her door, fell to his side and he walked away, back to the cold, empty loneliness of their once-shared bedroom.


	14. 507 (2)

"Nothing has been done that can't be undone, has it?"

She closes her eyes, knowing what he's asking.

She thinks about the way he kisses her in the morning, so softly and gently–like she is precious. She thinks about the way he whispers against her skin _I love you_ , the way he calls her _Jeannie_ and _love_ , the way she is completely in love with him.

Father Emory is wrong. There are things that can't be undone and she can't undo the life they've started to share or the love in her heart. It's too late for them.


	15. 507 (3)

She found the strength to leave him once before, she finds it again the morning after _The Courier_ posts their article. It's too much for her and she's coming to the realization that love isn't enough sometimes–no matter how much she wishes it were.

His eyes are bloodshot with lack of sleep and she watches as he chokes down a sob at the sight of her packed bags and traveling coat. Her voice is shaky and she tells him she's going to Adelaide, to stay with Christopher Jr. for a bit, she just needs to clear her head and think about what she wants.

Lucien nods but catches her hand on the doorknob, raising it to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss to the back of her hand. A tear falls from his eye and splashes on the back of her hand.

"You're coming back, right, Jean?" He's desperate, searching.

She wants to tell him _Yes_ but she doesn't want to lie, doesn't want to give false hope. She cups his cheek, strokes down the prickling hairs of his beard. "I don't know. Goodbye, Lucien."

He lets her go without a fight and she's in Adelaide only a few short hours later, unpacking her bags and sitting down on the bed to bury her face in her hands. The tears finally fall and she cries for a lost faith and a loss of privacy and the possible loss of her future.

The weeks in Adelaide pass quickly, but they feel hollow. She misses Ballarat desperately–misses her home, misses her church, misses _him_. She picks the phone up, debates calling him and asking him how he is, asks him to read the phone book to her, she just needs to hear his voice.

But she can't bring herself to do it.

So she takes little Amelia to the park and watches the joy of a carefree child and struggles to not imagine Lucien beside her, chasing a squealing Amelia through the swings.

She tries to ignore the whispers of Christopher Jr. and his wife, tries to ignore the empty hollow in her heart. The distance was meant to help clear her head, meant to allow her to prioritize her feelings. All she feels is the ache of missing him.

In the end, the decision to go home is an easy one. Christoher Jr. expects it and already has her bags packed and a bus ticket for her. She cries and hugs him and he whispers in her ear _Be happy_.

She's trying.

When she arrives home, she expects to find her boys in the kitchen enjoying dinner together and talking over their latest case.

What she doesn't expect is to find the house doused in darkness–no lights, no candles, nothing. She flips the hallway light on and tiptoes through the house. Everything looks exactly as it did when she left a few weeks ago.

A walk through the house tells her there's a thin layer of dust on everything and she's saddened to see no one has attended to her plants in the sunroom. The plants are browning and wilting, desperate for water and a bit of a cut back.

She heads for his study, angry he has let their home fall apart like this. She pushes the study door open and what she finds there shatters her heart.

Lucien is curled up on the study couch, the comforter from her bed pulled tight around him. There's a mostly-empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside him and his hair is mused–sticking up and out of place, nothing like his normally slicked back preference.

But sitting in the sill of his window, the only place in the entire room sunlight could filter through, is her prized begonia. It sits proudly on the sill, blooms plump and craning towards the window.

He had taken care of it. For her.

She wasn't the only one suffering while they were apart, it seems. Tiptoeing through the room, she perches on the edge of the sofa, leaning down to press her lips to his cheek.

He jerks awake, eyes wild and bloodshot. She threads her hands through his hair. He stares at her, unblinking, and croaks out, "Are you real?"

Tears sting her eyes and she nods, not wanting to know why such a question is needed, wondering how often he'd hallucinated her presence. "I'm real, Lucien."

The fight goes out of him then and he deflates before her eyes, sinking into her touch. He looks up at her with wonder. "You came back." It sounds like he can't believe it and from the state of the house, maybe he believed she would never come home.

She pushes at him to roll back against the back of the couch and he does so, opening the comforter and letting her slide in next to him. He wraps himself around her, burying his face in her neck.

There's an immediate comfort in being back in his arms and she knows they'll need to talk in the morning. There's so much left unspoken, but she knows now she has the strength to be with him, to accept him as he is–consequences be damned.

But for now, she sleeps in his arms, grateful to be together again.


	16. 507 (4)

In some ways, it feels like a return to their relationship of employer-employee all those months ago. There's an unspoken _something_ between them and neither one will address it.

He hadn't realized how much he had come to rely on expressing himself through touch or how often he had held himself back before Adelaide. Now, with her stiff smiles and awkward silences, it feels as if he has been robbed of something precious.

The morning after his _I love you_ hangs in the air, words not returned, he tries to kiss her good morning, tries to put things right. She turns her head and his lips catch her cheek instead. He looks stricken and she shakes her head, sadly at him. "I'm not there yet, Lucien."

He understands, of course. He's a bloody fool and he should be grateful she's still in the house at all, still wearing his ring. But the rejection stings and he tries not to overthink it, tries to honor her request.

So he keeps his hands to himself. No more casual shoulder rubs or a gentle squeeze of their hands. He steers clear of her when at all possible, locking himself inside his mother's study and allowing her to have the house to herself. He even misses the taste of her, misses the way she sighed into his mouth and clutched at his neck when he sucked at her bottom lip.

It goes on like this for days and Lucien thinks he'll go mad if he can't touch her again, wonders if this is punishment she has in store for him. Jean's touch warmed him from head to toe and without it, it feels as if he is adrift and alone without her to guide him.

On the fifth day, she knocks at his study (and he wonders when or if they'll ever return to the days in which she barged in as if she owned every corner of this home). His greeting is tentative and he works extra hard to not reach for her, to keep his hands curled into the fabric of his trousers.

Jean perches herself on the desk in front of him and he thinks it's all a test. She wants to see if he can follow instruction this time, if he can control himself. The grip on his trousers tightens and he wills himself to not move towards her.

Jean folds her hands in front of her and he wonders if she is struggling with their lack of physicality. He watches, enraptured, as she licks her lips and speaks. "You hurt me, Lucien."

His apology is immediate, spilling from his lips, "Jean, I _know._ I'm so sorr–"

But she holds her hand up, silencing him. "I didn't come here for apologies. I need you to understand something." She waits for him to nod and continues. "You broke a promise to me. We agreed to work together and you decided you knew best. And because of your actions, everyone is facing consequences. I want to be your _partner_. That's what you asked of me all those years ago and it's what you asked of me when you got down on that ruddy knee of yours."

Lucien hangs his head, every accusation hitting their mark. And then she hooks her finger beneath his chin, tilting his head up to meet her eyes. He tries not to whimper at the contact, tries not to grasp her hand to his face and nuzzle into it.

His eyes meet hers and he's an open book for her: desperation, apologies, sorrow, love, fear. She smooths her hand over his brow and traces the bridge of his nose. He can't help it, he needs to touch her. Eyes fluttering close, determined to savor this touch (unsure when the next will be), he uncurls his hands and rests them on her thighs, fingers dancing along the edge of her skirt.

She leans forward and kisses his cheek, her breath is warm when it hits his face. "I _also_ know you were trying to protect me. I know you've been panicking a bit and I know you are who you are. I told you that last week and I'll tell you again. I'm mad and hurt, Lucien, but I am never, ever going to leave you. I promise you."

It's too much for him. He chokes back a sob, old fears and insecurities tumbling to the surface. He tilts his head and brushes her lips with his, offering absolution and apologies. Their kiss reignites the bond between them and he feels the cracked ground beneath them shift closer, the cracks mending.

Jean's hand covers his own on her thigh and pushes it forward, up and under her skirt so his fingers can ghost over her bare skin. "You can touch me, Lucien."

It's the permission he needs and he stands from his desk chair and fits himself between her legs, falling upon her like a man dying of thirst. Days without touch have driven him mad and Jean is staying, staying, staying.

His mouth is hot and searching, covering her lips and cheek and neck. His hands wander over her hips and shoulders and back, drumming across her ribs, brushing her breast. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't keep his hands in one place, not when there was so much of her he hadn't touched in days.

Jean clings to him, offering her body to him, knowing how important touch is to him. If she's honest with herself, she needs it to. She had thought cutting herself off from him, from his presence, would help clear her head, give her space. He's larger than life and she can't help but feel she's a little bit stuck in his orbit, simply circling and waiting for him to pull and push her in.

The lack of his touch though had only left her feeling more out of sorts, scared and unsure where they were headed. At least now, with his body pressed against hers, she feels whole and safe.

His words are murmured on her skin, _I love you, I'm sorry, I love you._ Over and over again until she feels the words branded on her skin.

It's not perfect and their relationship will always be messy, but perhaps she's been tidy for too long. She threads their fingers together, admiring the easy fit. Like this, tied together, she feels certain they will be okay, certain their futures are entwined.

It's at least a start on the road to recovery.


	17. 507 (5) Malice

Matthew grimaced as the whiskey burned the back of his throat. The empty glass his the bar top a little harder than he intended and he rubbed his hand over his face, tired and worn down from the days events.

Lucien's words stung and touched insecurities that he kept buried, away from the surface.

 _I accomplish more drunk than you and your entire bloody department do sober!_

He waved down the bartender and ordered another whiskey–perhaps not a good idea, all things considered in the current Ballarat social climate, but to blazes with it. A whiskey was exactly what was needed at the end of today.

And then, as if he had summoned her through sheer will, Alice was there, sliding into the barstool beside him, scooting closer and dropping a kiss on his cheek. "Fancy meeting you here." Her grin was infectious and he found himself smiling back at her, those old insecurities receding again.

It was hard to think you weren't good enough when Alice Harvey looked at you like that.

She ordered a wine and sat back, looking at him, waiting. It was another thing he appreciated about Alice–she didn't push, didn't pry; just waited for him. He took another sip of his whiskey, mulling over his words. "Do you ever feel as if we're just side characters–supporting characters–in Lucien's life? This is just his drama and we just happen to be there?"

Now that the words were out of him, he seemed to deflate, slumped forward, playing with his whiskey tumbler. It felt melodramatic to say–even if it _was_ how he felt.

Alice's hand covered his, cool to the touch, and she squeezed gently before nudging at him, flipping his hand over so she could trace random designs on his open palm. It was such a simple, almost adolescent gesture–something for young teens in love, not middle aged disasters in a fledgling relationship.

She peered up at him, almost shy. "I don't think you're a supporting character at all, at least, not in my story." Uncharacteristically bold, she lifted his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. "You've got a starring role."

Such a simple reassurance–he was a starring role in her life. It implied importance and permanence and significance. No matter how bloody brilliant Lucien Blake was, he didn't have a starring role in Alice's life.

It settled something distressing inside of him and her touch on his skin warmed him quicker than the whiskey–and she'd only been here a few minutes. She was truly amazing.

He leaned forward, lips brushing hers lightly, not caring who may see. Pulling away, he sighs happily, relaxed. "I'm glad I've got such a prominent role. You know," he drops his voice to a whisper, almost conspiratorially. "You've got a bit of a starring role in my life, too."

She raises an eyebrow, "Oh, I do?" There's a playful glint in her eye and he's giddy with the realization, the words bubbling up and ready to fall off his tongue.

He hums in agreement, nodding, "Oh, yes. Some would call you a, uh, a _love_ interest."

The playful glint in her eye is gone and she's serious now, her hands tightening on his. "Matthew…"

His palm is cradling her cheek, thumb moving back and forth over her cheekbone. "I love you, Alice. It's okay if you don't feel the same way, but I just wanted you to kn–"

And then her lips are on his, frantic and passionate. His hands cradle her face, holding her to him. He sucks at her bottom lip and suddenly kissing her is so much more now that she knows he loves her. It's fire and heat and passion and he feels it sparking at his nerve endings like electricity.

There's a throat being cleared and they pul away, muttering apologies to the bartender. They had forgotten they were in public. Alice stares at him, eyes sparkling and her mouth twitching upwards into a smile.

"I love you, too, Matthew." She stutters over the words as if she hasn't said them in a while and he promises himself to never let her go, to never let those words go unsaid.

They are each other's happy ending.


	18. 508 (1)

The thing about gossip and news in a small town is that it travels like wildfire: a spark here, spreading over there, until the whole town is ablaze. The flame of news reaches her as she left the Bishop's office, filing her intention to defect from the Church.

The path to her and Lucien's happily ever after was still crowded with obstacles, but this was one less. She was surprised at the feeling of weightlessness and surety she felt and she allowed herself a pleased smile. This was something she could do.

And then Father Emory was racing after her, catching her by the arm and gasping out, " _Lucien….shot….dead on scene."_

Her blood turned to ice in her veins and she felt a chill settle over her, the sounds of the city blurring into background noise, and all she could do was run. Her legs carried her as fast as she could go, all the while, her heart felt like it was beating out of sync.

She couldn't lose him–not now, not after everything. She was _leaving_ the Church, she had chosen him above all else. They were going to be married and happy and she would not let God take him from her. She would fight Him tooth and nail, demand that He return Lucien to her. There was so much of their story left untold.

Passersby on the sidewalk cleared the way for her, anxious to step out of the way of the woman running full tilt in heels. She hardly felt the tears on her face or the sting of her makeup in her eyes. She just needed to know, needed to see…

There wasn't time for air, for breath, when Lucien was in danger and she pushed the doors open to the station, running down the hallway, needing to find Matthew, needing to see Lucien perched on his desk and gesticulating wildly and enjoying the attentions of the room.

Turning the corner, bracing her heart for whatever she found, she felt the life and air and heart return to her in a _whoosh_.

He was there: perfectly alive.

"Lucien…" she gasped out, and then the tears came in earnest, hot and blinding. Strong, warm arms, the smell of whiskey and pine, and impossibly soft wool enveloped her then and she fell forward into his waiting arms, burying her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I'm alright, it wasn't me, Jean. It wasn't me."

His hands were caked in dried blood, but she didn't care. Pressing herself even closer she lifted her head, pressing her lips to his, needing to feel the warmth of his lips against hers. Her hand rested flat on his chest and she felt the reassuring _thump-thump, thump-thump_ of his heart.

"I thought it was you. Oh, Lucien, I was so scared I'd lost you. I–" But words seemed like too much effort to manage and she collapsed against him once more, shutting her eyes closed against the outside world and focusing only on the feel of him.

Both were trembling in the other's arms, adrenaline and fear and relief coursing through them. Lucien continually pressed kisses into her hair, murmuring nonsense and her name and _love_ over and over again. She curled her fingers into his vest and clung to him.

Behind them, Matthew cleared his throat. "Lucien, we need to examine Munro's body. Whenever you're ready…" And with a small click of his cane, he disappeared into the hallway, awaiting Lucien.

Lucien pulled away, his hands stroking over her face, careful not to mar her skin with any dried blood. "I need to go, love. Are you alright?"

She waved him off, fingers still curled into his vest. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just–" She stopped and swallowed, composing herself. She flashed him a small smile. "I'm fine."

He dropped a kiss to her forehead and nuzzled her nose. "You're going to have to let go of me sometimes, you know."

Jean shook her head, tightening her hold before releasing him. "I don't think I'm ever going to let you go, Lucien Blake." There would be time later to tell him that she'd left the Church, that she'd chosen him–flaws and all.

There would be time.


	19. 508 (2)

The car ride home was silent–an unusual feat for Lucien. The adrenaline was still flooding through her system and it was escaping in bursts: nervously tapping her foot, drumming her fingers, flicking her eyes to Lucien over and over.

But he stayed focused on the road ahead and she saw the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel. She bit her lip, "Lucien, _say something_."

Silence.

When they pulled into the drive, Lucien immediately took her hand, leading her inside. The second they were inside and the door was shut behind them, hiding them away from the outside world, he was on her.

Lucien pressed her up against the door, hands frantically taking inventory of her body. He bracketed her body between his arms and caged her between the door and his body, not allowing escape. Flattened hands wandered over her middle and up her sides and she heard him mutter over and over again, " _You're okay, you're okay."_

Jean threaded her fingers through his hair and tugged gently, forcing his head up to meet her eyes. "Lucien?"

His eyes were wild, darkened with fear. He pressed himself against her body, hands cradling her face. "Don't ever do that again, Jean. I can't, I can't," his voice broke and he dropped his head to her shoulder, shuddering. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him close.

"I'm alright, Lucien. Let it out, let it out." She rubbed circles over his back as he shook against her, struggling to compose himself.

Jean hadn't thought of the consequences of her actions–she had simply seen Lucien in danger, herself in danger, and the anger had bubbled up insider her. That man had come after her and her family and she wouldn't stand by while Lucien threw himself into danger again.

Lucien's shaking had subsided and he turned his head to the side, planting small kisses to her neck, his tongue flicking out and licking at the salty skin, feeling her pulse thrumming.

Jean sighed and tilted her neck to the side, allowing him access. If this is what he needed to reassure himself that she was alive and here, she would give it.

Lifting his head, he nuzzled his nose against hers, taking his time and simply reveling in the closeness they could share. The tension of the last week seemed to melt away, falling behind them both, as they realized how close they had come to losing the other.

Jean took her time in sliding her hands over his chest, feeling his own heartbeat–proof he was alive and well, beneath her hands. Finally– _finally_ –Lucien leaned forward and covered her lips with his. Both sighed at the contact. There was no heat in the kiss, just a simple reassurance of their connection.

Proof, that they were alive and well. Jean nipped at his bottom lip and he pulled away, lifting their joined hands to his lips and rubbing his thumb over her engagement ring.

"Jean, I have every intention of spending many, many, _long_ years by your side. No more jumping in front of a murderer with a gun, alright?"

She thought of telling him off–of making a point that this was how _she_ felt when he threw himself into danger regularly, facing off with murderers and suspects alike without backup or any regard for his safety.

But his face was so earnest and she could still see the shadow of fear and doubt in his eyes and she smiled softly at him.

"I'll try to work it into the vows."


End file.
